


Leather Mommy

by deja_lu



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Choking, Consent Play, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom Harry Potter, Dom/sub, Dominatrix, Drag Queens, Dry Humping, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Gags, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, I know I know just read it okay, Kink Meme, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Fixation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Sub Draco Malfoy, Subspace, Transphobia, but I really wouldn't say it's heavy, if you have questions I simply am unable to answer them here, it's only said once I'm sorry guys look I just think Draco would be into it, just to be clear it's less dubious and more just an issue that they debate, ok there's porn now nevermind, that's the phrase, the explicit rating is not for actual sex scenes but rather the nature of Draco's job description, which is - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deja_lu/pseuds/deja_lu
Summary: When he put the cup down, Harry said, “So…you’re a drag queen dominatrix.”Malfoy eyed him levelly. “I believe so.”Harry nodded slowly. “I guess some could say you made it.”-The one where Draco is a Drag Queen Dominatrix and Harry is the Vi(s)e Interviewer who turns up on his doorstep. I don't what else to tell you, folks.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 36
Kudos: 60
Collections: Harry Pothead





	1. Cock and Ball Torture

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back, and for this. Yes, I tried to stay away. I tried to convert to writing only serious, publishable fiction that would not render me a social outcast. But the worms in my brain must be satiated. I present:
> 
> Leather Mommy.

It was perhaps a testament to the spectrum of Harry’s life experience that he did not so much as blink as his superior told him today’s objective was to interview a dominatrix.

“He’s not just a dominatrix,” Bolson Torris, assistant manager of TV “journalism” channel Vise, was spitting at him. The toothpick that inhabited the left corner of his mouth wobbled dangerously for emphasis. “He’s a drag queen dominatrix. She. Whatever. Make sure you hone in on that.”

“Right,” said Harry.

“Get in some good shots. I want to see frilly knickers, whips, that sort of thing. We want to dig into the dirt.”

“Right.”

“And, uh…” Bolson gnawed on the toothpick in thought. “Ask him why he has to dress up as a woman.”

Harry hummed. “That seems sensitive.”

Bolson spat out the toothpick and tucked it behind his ear. “What did you say?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“That’s right.” Bolson was already strolling back down the hallway in the manner of someone who actually had meaningful obligations to undertake. “He’s expecting us at ten.”

Harry glanced at his watch. It was five to.

-

The door opened. A familiar voice was saying, “You’re lat- ” but promptly cut off. Harry looked up.

It was Draco Malfoy.

“Oh,” said Harry, passionately.

Malfoy closed the door. Then he opened it. Then he closed it again.

Finally, he opened it and left it that way. He seemed to be leaning rather heavily against the handle.

“It’s you,” he whispered.

“It’s me,” Harry confirmed. “And…it’s you.”

Malfoy suddenly stood to attention and strode back into his house. Harry double-checked the number on the door before resigning himself to following, since the door had been left wide open.

Inside, Malfoy was rummaging around a small kitchen, heating water with his wand, grinding coffee beans, waving two cups over. Harry came in and stood awkwardly by the table as a large glass bottle flew by his head.

“Can I interest you in a coffee?” The bottle had a label on it that simply said in all-caps: VODKA 70%. Malfoy screwed off the cap in a flick of his wrist and poured a hefty amount into one of the cups.

“That’s not coffee,” Harry felt inclined to point out.

“Yes, it is.” Malfoy lifted the cup to his thin lips and downed it in one, his throat working. His hands were trembling a little, Harry noticed.

When he put the cup down, Harry said, “So…you’re a drag queen dominatrix.”

Malfoy eyed him levelly. “I believe so.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I guess some could say you made it.”

Malfoy stared, like he wasn’t sure if it was a joke. Then he raked a hand through his hair, white and thin and no doubt greasy as ever, before looking back at Harry. He frowned.

“You work for a Muggle show.”

“Yep.”

“You work for Vise.”

“That’s right.”

“A show which once did an episode on how hiking Mount Earnest gave people boners.”

“Everest,” Harry corrected.

Malfoy was still staring. As if Harry’s job was really the scandalous plot twist here.

“Speaking of boners,” Harry began.

Malfoy held up one, long, skinny finger, indicating for Harry to wait. Then he turned to the VODKA 70% and drank straight from it.

“Alright,” he said, wiping his mouth and coming to sit at the squat, plastic table. “Let us commence with our fates.”

There was a tense moment filled only with the sound of fluttering pages as Harry flipped open the list of questions Bolson had bequeathed him. Once he’d found what appeared to be the first page – the top of the page merely stated, in comic sans, _DRAG QUEEN DOMINATRIX NO. 6.2 (BLOND) –_ he settled back into the chair and opened his mouth.

The first question read:

_Do you wear women’s knickers in your day-to-day activities? Scale 1-5: 1 – Never, 2 – Hardly Ever, 3 – On occasion, 4 – Very Often, 5 – **Cannot Go Without.**_

Harry closed his mouth.

Malfoy tapped his foot impatiently. “Tell me you’ve brought the correct files.”

The second question read:

_Are they frilly?_

_Scale 1-5: 1 – Not at all, 2 – On The Waistband, 3 – As A Trim, 4 – All Over, 5 – **There Is Also A Bow.**_

Harry folded over the papers and set them securely back into the safety of his briefcase.

“Unfortunately,” he said, turning back to face the table. “I have not. My apologies.”

“You forgot them?”

Harry nodded. “That I did.”

Malfoy made an exasperated little flick with his wrist. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You were always like that.”  
  


 _Like what?_ Harry kind of wanted to ask, but the pressure was now entirely on him to inject at least a modicum of professionalism into the conversation. Otherwise, he was simply sitting in Draco Malfoy’s kitchen having a gossip about his sex life.

He really wasn’t paid enough.

He cleared his throat and gave it a heartfelt stab. “So. Why don’t you tell me about your routine?”

Malfoy opened and closed his mouth. “My routine?”

“Yes.” Harry made a show of getting comfortable in his seat. It was a trick he’d picked up in his few years of interview work – if you looked relaxed it tended to put other people at ease. “Let’s hear about it.”

Malfoy looked like he was trying to fight a smile. “By all means. Which one, exactly?”

Harry frowned. “The one you do for your work.”

“Ah. That one.” Malfoy took a pause to sip his “coffee”. “I’d love to. Let’s see. Every morning I wake with the birds. I make myself coffee and stretch.” He looked over at Harry. “You might want to write this down.”

“Oh.” He was right; Harry had forgotten. “Do you mind if I just record it on my phone?”

“Not at all. Where was I? Ah, yes. So, I have my coffee and get dressed. Most days, I wear a pretty little pink dress.”

Harry looked up. Malfoy’s face was entirely smooth.

“You do?”

“Yes, Potter.” Malfoy was nodding quite seriously. “With little lace stockings. They have bows.”

Perhaps, Harry thought, he’d somehow seen the papers?

“Then I prepare my little pink shoes. I have to clean the heels especially, you see, because of all the cock and ball torture.”

Harry made his face go very blank. Malfoy’s gaze didn’t even falter. Like a snake eyeing up a baby mouse.

“Right,” Harry managed finally, once he’d got his voice under control. “Of course.”

Malfoy’s eyes sparkled. “You understand.”

“Theoretically,” Harry added.

“Why.” A slender, platinum brow arched up. “You’re telling me the golden boy has never endeavoured into a harmless round of cock and ball torturing?”

“Let’s get back to your routine,” Harry said firmly.

The brow arched even higher. “Aren’t you going to ask how I clean them?”

Harry inhaled slowly. “How do you clean them, Malfoy?”

Malfoy leaned forward and said, very solemnly, “I wash them in the blood of heterosexual churchgoers.”

“Alright.” Harry ended the recording on his phone. “Very funny.”

“You believed me.” Looking at Malfoy now, with gleeful mirth practically glittering from his skin, he looked at lot more like he had at school. “You actually think I wear a little pink dress.”

Harry was standing up and putting his coat on. “You know what? Let me know if you’re ever interested in taking my job seriously.”

“I’m not taking your job seriously?” Malfoy was still sitting down, nearly gutting himself with incredulousness. “Do you actually hear yourself when you talk?”

“Have a nice life,” Harry stopped to call back from the doorway. “Or don’t. See you never.”

“I’ll make sure to wear it next time! Just for you!” Malfoy yelled back, but Harry was already stepping into the street and apparating.


	2. We'll See Trooper!

“What do you mean you didn’t get video footage?”

Harry stared at Delia. They shared an office, and Harry had grown to sort of timidly like her, despite the fact that she made a point of mentioning the clutter on his own desk every other day. It was the sort of thing Malfoy might do, if he and Malfoy shared an office.

Harry blinked. He didn’t know why he had thought that.

Delia raised her eyebrows, then waved. “Hello? Torris is going to give you the sixth degree for that.”

“He always gives me the sixth degree,” said Harry. “He didn’t tell me to get video footage. _No one_ told me.”

“For God’s sake.” Delia attempted to uncross her legs, then got stuck because her skirt was too tight. “We’re not writing the morning paper. It’s all online. Pictures. We at least need pictures.”

“If I go back there,” Harry said, with certainty, “and ask for Draco Malfoy’s picture, he will castrate me.”

“You’d let him get close enough to do that?” Delia was smug.

“Ha ha.” Harry reached into her peppermint ball in retaliation. She let him, because she liked him back, really.

“Cut down again by my quicksilver wit.” Delia gave up on trying to uncross her legs and spun back around to face her computer. “Is he an ex?”

Harry choked on the peppermint. It got lodged at the back of his throat, and he gasped and wheezed for another moment until Delia threw a tissue at him and hit his back with a touch too much relish.

“Why would you say that?” he spluttered, once the peppermint was in the tissue and his airways were clear. “What makes you say that?”

“You say his name like he’s famous.” There was a glass of water next to her elbow. She didn’t offer it to him. “I mean, mostly I was joking. Now I’m not so sure.”

“We have bad blood,” said Harry. “Bad history.”

Delia looked dubious. “Uh huh.”

“We were enemies,” said Harry. “In high school.”

“You were enemies.” Delia took this in. “Are you sure?”  
  


“HARRYYY” roared Borris Tolson, his voice accompanied by the daunting sound of approaching footsteps.

“Dickhead,” muttered Harry. Then – “Good morning, sir.”

Tolson narrowed his eyes. “Don’t good morning me you little shit. Where’s the video footage?”

-

Malfoy was having too much fun.

“Back for more?” He rubbed his thumb over his lips and _leered._ “Tenacious, aren’t you?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Are you going to let me in?”

“Is that a metaphor?” But Malfoy pushed off the door frame and walked back down the hallway without waiting for an answer. Hell, maybe that was the metaphor.

“You’re still not funny.” Harry eyed up the framed pictures on the wall as he came in. He hadn’t noticed them last time, probably because of the trauma.

“I’m a jewel, Potter,” Malfoy called back. Then – “Did you get lost?”

“What are these?”

“Something evil and full of dark magic, I’m sure.” Malfoy came back out. “Oh, those. My Gene Bilbrew prints.

“They’re cool.” Harry looked away from a black and white depiction of two corseted women punching each other in a boxing ring to where Malfoy was standing. There was a slight indentation between his pale brows.

“What?” asked Harry.

Malfoy’s gaze slid away from his face and down to Harry’s camera bag, clutched in his right hand.

There was something different about his voice when he spoke. “Why are you really back, Harry?”

The use of his first name caught Harry off guard. He tried to think of any other occasion Malfoy had used it and couldn’t. Did Malfoy think of him as _Harry?_

“It’s my job,” he replied. Malfoy smiled thinly, as if it was a joke.

“Second time lucky,” he murmured, and turned on his heel. “Living room is to the second left.”

His footsteps were brisk on the stairs. Harry took the hint and went to wait in the living room.

There were more prints in here, mostly of pin up girls. Over the fireplace was what looked like another Gene Bilbrew, this one showing a muscular man who was being restrained and whipped. There were a lot of glossy black sculptures on the bookshelves to match the patent leather sofas. In the middle of the room was a coffee table carved to look like a man on all fours, and on top sat a vase of black orchids.

Harry had to admit it was pretty cool, in a sort of goth way. He didn’t know what he had expected – snakes and emerald windows, maybe. He stepped around the coffee table to get a better look at the Gene Bilbrew print.

There was a speech bubble coming out of the muscular man’s mouth.

_I’ve – I’ve told y-you won’t g-get a **thing** out of m-me!_

_We’ll **see** trooper!_ said the busty woman, gripping the handle of the whip. She had short hair gelled back and tall, aristocratic features.

“Like what you see?” came a familiar drawl.

Harry looked over his shoulder. Malfoy was dressed as latex maid. He was wearing a lot of eyeliner.

Harry wasn’t sure if he was talking about the print or himself. There was really no safe answer.

“You don’t really look like a woman,” he said instead.

Malfoy was unfazed. He stepped into the room, platform heels clicking on the dark wood. “The point of drag,” he said, “is not to look enough like a woman that straight men on the street simply want to fuck you. The point is to look enough like a woman that they want to fuck you, but enough like a man that it pisses them off.”

“So you _do_ like being hit,” Harry mused.

Malfoy’s eyes were sparkling. Funnily enough, he did look happier in his little maid get up.

“Yes, daddy,” he said sweetly.

Harry dropped the camera bag. He swore and bent down to pick it up. He didn’t need to look up to tell that Malfoy was thrilled to finally get a rise out of him.

He took a few pictures of Malfoy pretending to dust the coffee table. They were actually pretty good. Malfoy was still glowing from his win. Determined not to be one-upped, Harry said, “Can you bend over more?”

Malfoy pressed his lips together. He bent over more.

“Can you handcuff me to the table?” he asked, sometime later.

Harry bit down on his smile. “Can’t you do it yourself?”

Malfoy bat his lashes prettily. “Not both hands.”

Harry handcuffed him to the table. As he was turning the key, he said, “Aren’t you worried that I’ll just leave you here?”

“You mean I _can’t_ trust you?”

Harry smirked. He met Malfoy’s dark eyes and looked away again. “I suppose you can always spell your way out.”

“Not if I’m gagged.”

Harry’s gaze snapped back to him. Malfoy stared right back, daring him with his eyes. Harry could feel the pieces between them moving, was suddenly aware of the way he was crouched over him. _Check._

He stood up. “Where are they?”

“On the bookshelf.”

Harry turned to face it, but he didn’t miss Malfoy smiling to himself. Whatever. He wouldn’t be able to smile for much longer.

There were a few ball-gags strewn over the books. Harry selected the spikiest one off the top of a cover of _The Male Body: A New Look at Men in Public._

He came back over. “Open up.”

Malfoy opened his mouth. Harry could feel his inhale against the skin of his thumb. The gag buckled at the back of Malfoy’s head, where the white hair was very short and fine.

When it was done, Harry straightened back up, hands on his hips. Malfoy looked up at him.

_Oh._

Harry made himself take a few steps back. He picked up the camera and fiddled with the settings until he’d had a moment to collect himself. He aimed.

“I thought you were a dominatrix,” he said, mostly to distract Malfoy. He pressed his eye to the viewfinder.

Malfoy made a muffled sound that started off sarcastic, and then looked immensely annoyed to find that a side-effect of his engineering was that he could no longer deliver one-liners. It was kind of hilarious, actually.

“Cheer up,” said Harry, and clicked the shutter. Malfoy glared daggers at him.

Harry wouldn’t be surprised if all the photos ended up with singed holes where Malfoy’s eyes were supposed to be. When there were enough, he crossed back over and unbuckled the gag. It was wet.

“I think I like you better like this,” he said conversationally.

Malfoy was breathing quite heavily. He didn’t look at Harry. “Can you let me out?”

Harry frowned. He unlocked the handcuffs. Malfoy didn’t wait for him to take them off fully – he was already up, putting space between them. There were red indentations at the corners of his mouth. He’d been biting down.

“Are you okay?”

“Perfect, I’m perfect.” Malfoy ran a hand through his fringe. “I’ll just change.”

And he disappeared back into the corridor without another word.

Harry blinked at the abruptly empty room, trying to figure out how the mood had switched so quick. Had he gone too far?

He packed up his equipment and went into the kitchen to wait. There was a growing sense of guilt in his gut that was getting difficult to ignore, so he put on the kettle. He could vaguely hear Malfoy moving about upstairs.

Sometime later, Malfoy came back down. He looked very surprised to see Harry in the kitchen.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“Erm. Yes?” He couldn’t remember Malfoy asking him to leave.

“I just thought –” But Malfoy cut himself off. “It doesn’t matter.”

He stood there in the doorway for another second, arms crossed over himself. He had changed back into a jumper and jeans but hadn’t removed the eyeliner. It was bizarre to see him hesitating.

Harry pointed. “I made you tea.”

“I don’t like tea,” Malfoy said automatically, but couldn’t seem to look away from the cup.

Harry wanted to ask him if he was alright but couldn’t think of a way to that wouldn’t offend him. He settled for, “I don’t have to use all of the photos.”

Malfoy scoffed, then relaxed. “I don’t care about the photos,” he said, sounding a bit more like himself. He crossed over to the table and curled a finger around the handle of the cup but didn’t pick it up.

“Right,” said Harry. And then because he couldn’t help it – “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Malfoy. “How would you know I didn’t like tea?”

It wasn’t what he was apologising for, and they both damn well knew it. But Malfoy had finally met his eyes, and there was a sort of grey warning in them.

“Right,” Harry repeated. He stood up, deliberately trying to make his movements non-threatening. “Well. Thanks for everything. I’ve got everything I need now.”

“Mm.” Malfoy hummed mildly.

“I’ll let you get back to –” He waved his hand vaguely, backing out towards the front door.

“My redemption arc?” Malfoy finished for him.

Harry laughed, not expecting it. Malfoy looked over and smiled at him, all traces of animosity gone.

“Yeah. I’ll see you,” said Harry, and opened the door. Malfoy was still standing there at the kitchen table when he left, one finger curled into the cup of the tea he didn’t like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was that hot? Let me know if you thought it was hot. 
> 
> This chapter's song is Vroom Vroom by Charli XCX, obviously. 
> 
> Also the Gene Bilbrew print is real, google it.


	3. 1800 - Be - My - Bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: there is a brief use of the f** slur in this chapter, although it's used between friends, not in a derogatory way.

Bolson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I thought he was a dominatrix.”

The photos Harry had taken were splayed out on the desk between them. Harry had been trying to not look directly at them.

“I can go back,” he offered.

“No, no.” Bolson shook his head. “These are fine. Send them to, um, Helen to sort out.”

“Alright,” said Harry, after a moment. Bolson was already picking up his phone and typing, moving on from their conversation. Harry picked up his file and went back to his office. 

“Why the long face?” asked Delia as he came in, not looking up from her computer.

“What?” He touched his jaw. “My face isn’t long.”

“Sure thing.” She spun around to look at him properly. “Did Torris hate the pictures or something?”

“No.” Harry sat down and put the file on the table. “He said they were fine.”

“Ah.”

Harry looked over at her suspiciously. “What is it now?”

“Nothing.” Her fingers tapped on the desk. “Fancy a coffee break? I haven’t even had my third today.”

“Sure.” Harry was always down for a coffee break. “How is your heart still beating?”

Delia liked a coffee place that was a good twenty-minute walk from where they worked, right into town. Harry personally couldn’t tell what was so special about it – coffee was just coffee, wasn’t it? – but he liked the walk through the park and down the avenues with the red stone office buildings.

There was bit of queue. Delia rocked her weight from foot to foot, her reusable mug readied in one hand. The mug said, _World’s Okayest Employee_ , which Harry had got her for Secret Santa last year.

“What are you getting?” she asked, checking her watch.

“Oh, you know,” said Harry. “Probably just a tea.”

Delia said the last part with him. He rolled his eyes, playing along, then noticed a white head walking past the window.

“Sorry,” he said, heart racing, and stepped out of the queue.

“Harry it’s our turn –”

But he was already outside, the autumn wind hitting his face. He looked up and down the streets until he found that white head again, at last, just about to cross the road. He jogged over and grabbed his elbow just as the lights changed.

“Merlin’s beard,” said Malfoy, jumping. _“Potter?”_

“Hey.” Harry grinned, which seemed to alarm Malfoy even more. “We bumped into each other.”

“Mm.” Malfoy’s gaze flickered past Harry’s shoulder and then back to his face. “I mean. You ran up to me and grabbed me.”

Harry hadn’t realised he was still holding onto Malfoy’s elbow. He let go of it and then stepped back, taking in all of him.

“You’re wearing muggle clothes,” he said.

“Yes,” said Malfoy. “Are we just going to glide by the part where you were stalking me again?”

Harry’s gaze snapped back to his face. “What? I wasn’t stalking you. I was getting coffee with my friend. I just saw you and thought I would say hello.”

“Oh.” Malfoy’s lips twitched, although he still looked confused about the whole thing. “Well. Hello.”

Harry grinned again. Malfoy’s eyes did an up-and-down of him and then moved towards the road.

Harry realised, belatedly, that the moment was slipping him by. “Wait,” he said. “I actually meant to ask you. I forgot to get video footage last time.”

Malfoy raised his brow with dangerous precision. Harry abruptly felt transparent.

“I see,” said Malfoy. “Your boss wasn’t satisfied with our little shoot.”

Harry liked the way he pronounced _satisfied._

“Yes, exactly.”

“I see,” said Malfoy again. “And what is the video to be of?”

“A visual poem,” Harry bullshitted on the spot. “Look, it’s hard to explain. Have you eaten?”  
  


Malfoy’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“We should discuss it.” Harry nodded in a way that he used to say _that’s that._ “I know a nice deli spot.”

“Are you.” Malfoy stopped and closed his eyes briefly. “Are you asking me to _lunch?”_

The incredulity was a touch unnecessary, in Harry’s opinion. “Well, aren’t you hungry?”

“It’s four in the afternoon.”

“Good, it’ll be quiet.” Harry started off down the street. “Come on.”

For a heartbeat Malfoy just stood there on the spot, and Harry thought he wasn’t going to come. But then he turned and fell into step besides Harry.

He didn’t say a word until they were seated at the deli – it was really was close by – and their coats were being taken away by the waiter.

“Nice shadow,” said Malfoy.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Malfoy looked away quickly. He was sitting up very straight in his seat.

“Oh.” It clicked. Harry rubbed his hand over his stubble a little bashfully. “Yeah, I’m just lazy. I’ll shave it soon.”

Malfoy swallowed. He had the kind of slim frame that made his Adam’s apple rather distinctive. He was wearing a new jumper today, a charcoal one that Harry hadn’t seen before.

“Or maybe I should grow it out,” Harry said, just to fill the silence. “What do you think?”

Malfoy stared. “Why does it matter what I think?”

Harry shrugged and turned back to the menu. “Guess it doesn’t. The lasagne is good here.”

He could feel Malfoy still staring at him, but he opened the menu when Harry looked up. When the waiter came, he ordered the lasagne and an iced coffee.

“You’re not normally this…” Harry said when the waiter had gone, gesturing between them with his hand.

Malfoy’s entire body stiffened. “What?”

“You know. Quiet.”

“Oh.” Malfoy took that in. “Well, you can hardly have expected me to pull out a whip in a deli.”

“I don’t know what to expect of you.”

“Is that supposed to insult me?”

“No,” said Harry. “It’s kind of refreshing, actually.”

Malfoy’s entire face went bright red. Harry watched, fascinated as he tried to pretend it wasn’t happening.

“This visual poem, then.” Malfoy said the words carefully. “What does that entail?”

“You know,” said Harry. “The usual things.”

“I don’t know, actually.” Malfoy’s voice was mild.

“We’ve decided to take things in a more artistic direction,” Harry said. “To humanise the subject, make you more relatable. We don’t want to exotify the LGBT community, see.”

Malfoy’s eyes went as round as saucers. “Did Granger come up with that?”

“Granger-Weasley,” Harry corrected. The corner of his mouth pulled up. “And no.”

“Of course.” Malfoy ran a finger down the fold of his napkin. “She’s been making waves lately.”

Harry felt surprise ripple pleasantly through him. “You keep track of my friends?”

“I don’t _keep track_.” Malfoy scowled – and there he was, the boy from Hogwarts Harry had once hated more than anything. When he thought about it nowadays, Harry mostly wondered if Malfoy had already started wearing dresses then. “I read the newspaper.”

“Which one?”

“What? Why?”

“Just curious.”

Malfoy’s eyes flicked towards the ceiling in annoyance, or perhaps in brief prayer. “The Quibbler.”

“Really? How come?”

Malfoy shot him a dirty look. “Because I like Luna Lovegood. And it’s well written,” he added, after a beat.

“You like her?”

Malfoy’s eyes flicked up again, and this time it was definitely in prayer. “We are friends.”

“I didn’t know that. She never mentions you.”

“Ta.” Malfoy’s waved a hand. “And maybe that’s because it’s a well-established fact that you hate me.”

The waiter came by with drinks.

“I don’t hate you,” said Harry, when they were alone again.

“Come _on_ ,” said Malfoy, from around his paper straw.

“I don’t! I honestly don’t feel much about you these days.”

Malfoy went silent. He straightened up only to stir his straw through the coffee. The ice cubes clanked against the glass.

“Why? Are you still angry?”

The straw paused for a moment. Then it started stirring the other way.

“No,” said Malfoy. “I’m not angry.”

“I can apologise,” Harry offered.

“For heaven’s sake. Do _not_.” Malfoy pulled his hands down his face. He wasn’t wearing any makeup today, but that also looked good on him. “Is that what you really brought me here for? Your saviour complex?”

“No,” said Harry. Then just in case it wasn’t clear – “We needed to discuss the video footage.”

Malfoy was staring at him again. He looked unmistakably defeated.

The lasagnes arrived.

“Can I get you anything else?” asked the waiter. “Extra parmesan?”

Harry took some. Malfoy did not.

“You’ll like it,” said Harry, when all Malfoy did was stare down at the lasagne as if he was hoping it held answers. “Here, do this.”

He leaned across the table and cut the crust down the middle, letting the steam billow out. Malfoy didn’t stop him. His eyes were big and bright through the cloud of steam.

“I know how to cut my own food,” he said once Harry had leaned back, but there wasn’t any real bite to it. He piled up his fork and put it in his mouth. Harry watched him chew and swallow, waiting.

“Oh, fuck,” said Malfoy once he could speak again, and loaded up another forkful.

“Good, right?” Harry was only a little bit smug. “They make the sauce themselves.”

Whatever Malfoy said next was muffled by more lasagne, which unfortunately reminded Harry of last week, when Malfoy had been trying to talk through the gag. He shifted in his seat.

“I have an idea for your visual poem,” Malfoy said when whatever euphoria he’d been held in had subsided enough to speak again. He wiped the corner of his lips with the napkin.

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Malfoy was squaring his shoulders as if he’d come to a decision. “We’ll go shopping.”

“Erm. Shopping? That’s not very…” Harry found his word. “Poetic.”

Malfoy raised the point of his chin. “No, it’s just the place. An educational opportunity, you can’t pass it up.” He paused thoughtfully. “A cornucopia of cultural wealth.” Another pause. “A fecund field of cognisance.”

“Alright,” said Harry. “You lost me a little, in the last half.”

“It’s quite alright.” Malfoy made a movement as if to pat his hand and then seemed to think better of it. His fingers fluttered awkwardly between them. “Let me put this is in a way you can understand: I’m free next Thursday at quarter to one.”

A business card slid across the chequered table-top. Harry picked it up.

_1800 – Be – My – Bitch_ , read the card in reflective purple lettering. Next to it was a picture of Malfoy’s head, his white hair artfully poised above his forehead as he applied a lipstick and eyed the camera coyly.

Harry looked up dubiously. “You didn’t have these made for me? I remember the badges.”

Now Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Your self-obsession remains a wonder to behold. Don’t be late.”

-

When Malfoy’s door opened on Thursday at half past, there was another man standing in the hallway.

“Oh,” said Harry for the second time.

“Oh indeed.” The man was dark-skinned and had a round, bald head. He was wearing lashes the size of airplane wings. “What’s this?”

“I work for Vise,” said Harry, nonsensically.

The man blinked. It almost blew Harry off the top step.

“Merlin,” said Malfoy, appearing at the bald man’s left. He had to squeeze past the shoulder pads. “You’re early.”

“You told me not to be late.”

“I bring it on myself, don’t I?” said Malfoy, and the bald man said, “You know you do, darling.”

“Yes, alright, thank you. He’s here now, he’s not going to go away.” Malfoy wriggled back into the flat. “Come on then, Potter.”

The bald man raised his brows meaningfully, then stepped back to let Harry come in.

They did not, as Harry thought they might, lead him to the living room, but instead went straight to what must have been Malfoy’s bedroom.

It was a far cry from the monochromatic severity of downstairs. There were feather boas everywhere, shimmer, sequins and powders and heels piled high on the double bed like a knicker-blocker. Malfoy and his friend picked up some palettes and brushes and resumed doing their makeup.

“Manners,” said his friend, poking one of the eyelashes.

Malfoy pulled the brush away from his eye and gestured with it. “Potter, this is Benjamin Poppers. Potter, meet Poppers.”

“You’d think this was a set up,” drawled…Benjamin Poppers.

“Right, Hi.” Harry checked his watch. “Malfoy, are you going to be ready soon?”

“Is he always this rude?”

“Yes. Strong, silent types – you know how they are.”

“Malfoy.”

“Merlin, yes. Don’t get your panties in a twist. Sit down and think about sports or something.”

There wasn’t exactly anywhere to sit on the bed. Harry pushed a breastplate to the side and perched next to the bedside table.

“So, Potter,” drawled Benjamin Poppers. “How’d you and Astoria meet?”

“It’s just Harry,” said Harry. “And who?”

“Astoria. Astoria Rabbit.” When Harry continued to stare blankly, Benjamin stopped prodding his eyelash and hummed exasperatedly. “The blond fag whose house we’re in.”

Harry looked at Benjamin, then at the bed he was sitting on, then finally at Malfoy. Malfoy’s hand had stilled again, and he was already smirking at Harry in the mirror.

“No,” said Harry. _“Astoria?”_

“You really thought I was selling blowjobs under the family name?”

“No, but –” He got distracted. “You sell blowjobs?”  
  


“Trust you to get hung up that part,” said Malfoy, right as Benjamin said, “And just like that, the evening is sorted.”  
  


Malfoy shot him a filthy, if mildly amused, look.

“No, I’m not –” Fucking hell. “I’m not _inquiring._ I just thought you were a dominatrix.”

“I am.” Malfoy’s voice went low and sort of syrupy. “You should see how they beg for it.”

Harry felt interest curl through his gut. Annoyed, he looked away. His gaze caught on an old copy of the Quibbler stuck between the bedside table and the bed. It was the edition Luna had run about Harry’s volunteering at a Blast-ended Skrewt Rehabilitation centre. His curved face smiled back at him.

Benjamin pointed between the two of them with a lip gloss applicator. “Should I leave you two alone?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Malfoy. “Someone needs to bottom.”

Benjamin threw his head back and laughed a deep belly laugh.

-

Malfoy took them to a sex shop.

“I’ve actually been here before,” said Harry.

Malfoy stopped where he was, one foot over the threshold, one hand on the door. The bell above it ringed. It was obvious he didn’t know whether or not Harry was fucking with him.

“Surely not,” said Malfoy.

“Can I help you?” asked the shopkeeper.

“We’re just looking.” Malfoy put the other foot over the threshold and turned around, so that Harry almost walked into him. It was fortunate that he didn’t, since Malfoy’s bra was entirely adorned with one-inch spikes.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Malfoy’s voice was accusatory.

“You didn’t tell me where we were going,” Harry reminded him. “Are you actually pouting?”

“No.” Malfoy turned to face a wall of body-stockings so Harry couldn’t see his pout. Which was still visible if Harry leaned slightly to the right. His overdrawn lips jut out over the knife’s point of his chin, a tiny red blossom. Malfoy liked to paint on his lipstick in the shape of heart, just like the evil queen from Alice in Wonderland.

“You are,” said Harry. “Holy shit, are you always this dramatic?”

“Dramatic? Pray, do not throw about such accusations.” Malfoy’s eyes were starting to sparkle above the pout.

Harry leaned against a box of crotchless butterfly panties. “It was still sweet of you,” he said conversationally, “to come up with a surprise just for me.”

Malfoy pressed his lips together. “Yes, well. How was I supposed to know of your perverted tendencies?”

“Are you implying that you have perverted tendencies?”

“I’m very open about my perversions. It’s you who lives a life of deceit.”

“Maybe you’re stereotyping.”

Malfoy looked up from the fishnets he’d been pretending to study and gave him a long, heated look that travelled from his toes to the tips of his hair.

“Why Potter,” he drawled. “What secret depths lurk under the still waters of your tracksuit bottoms?”

Harry held up a box of crotchless butterfly panties.

The corners of Malfoy’s lips were twitching uncontrollably. He abruptly turned on his heel and strode deeper into the store, where the floggers and whips were hanging. There he stopped, appearing to gather himself, that turned back to the room at large.

“We’re not just here to peruse,” he announced. “Start filming.”

“Erm.” Harry side-eyed the shopkeeper, who’d been unabashedly watching their every exchange. “Is that okay?”

“What’s it for?”

“Vise.”

Malfoy laughed unnecessarily.

“Sure,” said the shopkeeper. “Long as you buy something.”

“He’s very rich,” Malfoy assured him.

“Thanks, Malfoy.” Harry took out the video recorder. “Say cheese.”

Malfoy puffed up his chest, fake breasts heaving, and rested a delicate hand on his hip. “Welcome, class of two-thousand and four. Today I’m going to walk you through my personal whip recommendations.”

“Oh wow,” mouthed Harry.

Malfoy picked up a riding crop. “Now,” he said, voice as smooth as honey, “if this is your first time, remember to take it easy. Impact play is all about working up to the big money.” He paused. “Just like anal stretching. Eyes up, Potter.”

“I’m cutting that out,” said Harry.

“Speaking of which.” Malfoy ignored him in favour of selecting a flogger with a glass dildo as a handle. “This is one of my personal favourites. Good for when you’re lonely.”

“You get lonely?” asked Harry.

“All the time,” said Malfoy. “Doesn’t that make you feel big and strong and pitying?”

“You have no idea.”  
  


Malfoy bit down a smirk. “Stop interrupting. Like you said, this is poetry.”  
  


“You’re not even rhyming.”

Malfoy cracked the flogger against his palm. The smack rang through the small shop.

“But I'm on beat,” he replied into the ensuing silence.

Harry bought the flogger after they finished filming.

“What poor soul are you going to use that on?” Malfoy was leaning against the counter, rummaging absentmindedly through flavoured lube.

Harry didn’t trust himself to answer. “Do you take card?”

“Of course.” The shopkeeper punched a few buttons into the machine.

“We’ll take these too,” said Malfoy, before Harry could swipe his card. He was pushing a least twenty bottles of lube across the counter.

Harry gave him a look. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I’m never kidding.”

“Who even needs that much lube? What are you doing with it?”

“I’m having a bath,” said Malfoy innocently.

Harry laughed. Malfoy lit up.

The shopkeeper ran the lube through. “You two are a cute couple.”

They both stared dumbly at him, stunned into silence. Neither of them said anything as Harry paid and they stepped back out into the street. The day seemed very bright.

“Right – ” said Malfoy.

“I’m sorry – I should have –”

“It’s no matter,” said Malfoy. He got very polite when he was nervous. “Thank you for coming."

“Right,” said Harry. “I’ll see you next week.”

There was a silence. Then Malfoy said, just as politely, “What for?”

“Oh.” Harry didn’t know why he had said that. It was just that – he’d assumed. “Yeah, I guess we’re done here. I’ll send you it when it’s done.”

“Okay,” said Malfoy.

“Okay.”

Malfoy tilted his head to the side. For a moment it seemed the afternoon was suspended around his long, slim face, his wide-set eyes, both very clear and bright.

And then it was gone.

“Goodbye, Harry,” said Malfoy, and turned before Harry could answer, heels clacking on the cobblestones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This must be the earliest I've ever uploaded a new chapter. You can thank quarantine for that, I suppose. This chapter's song is The Love We Almost Had by Rhiannon Giddens. 
> 
> Going to be straight up - I have no idea where this is going. My love of slow-burns meets my distinct desire to wrap this up in the next two chapters. It was naive of me to assume Draco and Harry could ever be brought together in less than 30, 000 words. I am unwilling to commit to that, and yet suspect the rest of this story will inevitably start flashing in stop motion behind my lids at night if I do not. I can promise that I will not leave this unfinished, because it goes against principles (I've been hurt too many times by other people's hiatuses). 
> 
> So. We shall see. Let me know what you think.
> 
> p.s. I thought it was very edgy to rewrite Draco's canonical wife (beard) as his Drag persona. Let's talk about it.


	4. The Feminine and The Fishy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, welcome back. Merry Belated Christmas.

Harry had a problem.

The problem involved twenty bottles of flavoured lube.

“Harry,” said Delia, “Do you have tippex on you? I’d literally rather die than go back down to the printing room.”

“Hmm, I don’t know.” He didn’t look up from where he was dragging a stock photo of a man eating a burger around on an empty word document. “You can check my bag if you want.”

“Your manbag?” Delia snorted as she bent down to unzip it. “God, this is heavy, what do you have –”

Harry spun around in his chair and kicked the bag across the room. It was a good kick, his foot arching through the air like a footballer about to score a goal. The bag arched through the air too, and as it did it deposited bottle after bottle of lube, momentarily suspended in a perfect, profound rainbow. Then the moment passed, and bag and lube fell to the carpet flooring in damning harmony.

“Wow,” said Delia into the horrified stillness. “Talk about preparing for a long winter.”

Harry put his hands over his face. “I can explain.”

“I don’t know if I want you to. Seriously, it’s like a squirrel storing nuts or something. You know we’re not going to run out, right?”

“They’re not mine.”

“Oh, sure. Your friend stole your phone. God, you’d think it was like the global food shortage crisis, but instead…dick shortage.”

“I like women too,” huffed Harry. “Seriously, they aren’t mine. They’re Malfoy’s.”

Delia’s eyebrows floated closer to God. “Some women have dicks,” she said, a little too pointedly.

“Yes,” said Harry. “And that’s great, but him and I – it’s not like that. It was for the article.”

Delia turned her head to face him in the manner of a possessed doll. “But Harry,” she said, “the article is finished.”

Harry pointed a finger gun at her. She pointed one back. He could almost hear the breeze rustle between them, the dingy office temporarily reminiscent of anywhere in Texas.

“Alright,” he said, finally conceding. “I was making another video.”

“A home video?”

He chucked one of the lubes at her. It missed, knocking over an empty coffee cup and landing securely in one of the dying office plants.

“No,” he said, and then realised he was going to have say the phrase “visual poem” aloud. “Actually, yes.”

“I’ll tell Torris,” she threatened.

“You’re evil,” he said. “Pure evil. Look, I’m not sure what’s happening. Okay? I just wanted to…figure some stuff out.”

“I won’t tell Torris,” she said. “But only if I get to meet him.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. “No.”

“Just say I’m on the team.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re on the team,” said Harry. “I’m not seeing him again.”

Delia’s eyes widened. _“Oh.”_

“Stop it.”

“You’re disappointed.”

“Shut up,” said Harry. “I’m not.”

“You can silence me,” Delia warned. “You can’t silence the longing hymns of the heart.”

“My heart doesn’t sing hymns.”

“Grunts,” Delia amended. “The off-beat grunts. Of longing.”

“Why does everyone think I’m a caveman?” Harry shook his fringe down over his head, an anxious habit from childhood. “Look, it’s not like that.”

“Tell me what it’s like then.” Delia spread her arms, cream satin brushing a pencil sharpener off the desk. She paid it no mind. “Sing for me, my angel of music.”

Harry considered the merits of bursting into song, then dismissed the idea. He wasn’t there yet.

“A one,” said Delia. “A one two three four!”

He sighed. “I’m curious, alright?”

“There it is.” Delia dropped her arms. “Did that hurt on its way out?”

“He’s just – he’s so – he’s different.”

“From you?”

Harry, forgetting himself, had been about to say from how he was during the war. Now he paused and looked at her.

Delia was a muggle. She didn’t know. They had joked about it, but she didn't know, not really, not like Ron or Hermione or Ginny. Her steady brown eyes were trained on him.

Something inside him relaxed. He sat back in his chair. “Yes,” he said. “From – me.”

Delia nodded, looking thoughtful. “That makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Sure.” She shrugged. “It’s a novelty, right? It’s okay if you want to know more. Especially since you’re so reserved.”

Harry had broken a dragon out of Gringrotts. He had infiltrated the ministry when he was the most wanted man in the wizarding world. He had put a knife through a basilisk.

“I’m not reserved,” he said, slowly.

“Sure you are.” Delia spun back to face her computer, bored now. “You’re the most average man I’ve ever met. You’re, like, a caricature of normality. No offense.”

“None taken,” said Harry, dazed. It was at times like this that he was reminded why he liked Delia so much. Why he liked this office, this job. After the war, the Aurors, Ron and Hermione’s divorce, it had been a comfort. Trivial and yet so important. He had had enough excitement to last a lifetime. Hadn’t he?

“Just call him,” said Delia. “It’s not like you’re busy.”

“No.” Harry spun back around as well. “I’m so busy.”

He moved the burger image slightly to the left.

-

_An average man._

The phrase echoed through his head for the rest of the day, between coffee breaks and Bolson cussing him out and the weekly power cut. He thought about it as stood at the printer, his burger image only half-printed out. Around him was the familiar roar of complaining as the entirety of the office lost whatever article they’d been working on.

When he got home, he took out the business card Malfoy had given him. It was ridiculous, like every part of Malfoy was ridiculous. Like Harry’s job was ridiculous. Malfoy’s heavy-lidded gaze beckoned up to him, an alluring expression that was so overdone it was a parody. It should have made it less alluring. Yet it made it more. 

Harry thought of Malfoy’s eyes, of the afternoon sunlight flooding his fine, artisan features. They were inbred; too long, too narrow in places, the proportions just odd enough to push themselves outside the stark lines of conventional beauty. His lipstick made him even less conventional, the tiny heart of his red mouth making his eyes appear too big, like he was always surprised. He had looked surprised outside the shop, but it had been a surprise that had been carefully reigned in, held close until it stilled, staring and not moving.

Harry thought of Malfoy in the deli, by the traffic lights. For someone so… _gay_ Malfoy had could also be rather reserved. He hadn’t been reserved in Hogwarts. He hadn’t been reserved until he’d learnt he could lose, Harry supposed.

He put the card back in his pocket.

-

It was Luna’s exhibition on Friday.

She taught crafts at a local college and had arranged for the students to do a takeover at an indie studio near where Harry lived. Harry walked there, the November night nipping at his nose and where his scarf didn’t quite cover the top of his throat. He had let his beard grow out further, mostly out of laziness, but he was grateful for it now as he walked.

Luna wasn’t in sight when he entered the studio. The lights were white, and they beamed down onto a blond head that was facing away from Harry. Harry’s heart skipped a beat, the way it had when he had first discovered magic and the previously impossible had become possible.

He stepped close to the back of the blond head and lowered his voice. “Is that you Astoria?”

Malfoy scared so bad he knocked the clay vase he’d been studying off its podium. “Fuck!”

Harry caught the vase on reflex and shot Malfoy a sidelong look while he did it. “I think you’re just supposed to look,” he said lightly.

Malfoy looked good. He was wearing a white blazer that looked like it’d been bought from the women’s section, with a blush pussy bow blouse underneath. The blush was less pink than the one on Malfoy’s face.

“Harry,” he said, aghast, and it sounded confessional.

Harry raised his brow, feeling a little smug. “First name basis?”

Malfoy looked away, eyes scanning the room like he was looking for an emergency exit. His blush disappeared beneath the pussy bow, skin trading in for silk. Harry wanted to pull it lose.

“You started it,” Malfoy murmured.

Actually, Harry hadn’t, but Malfoy was still looking away. Instead, Harry said, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t you? Thought I was lying about being Luna’s friend? I suppose you would.”

“What? No.” Harry frowned. “It’s nice to see you.”

Now Malfoy looked at him. His eyes weren’t as big as Harry remembered, but they were clear all the same.

“Nice,” he echoed, almost sarcastic, drawing out the word until it sounded like something else.

Harry swallowed. Malfoy’s eyes traced the movement.

“I didn’t think you liked exhibitions,” he said, after a beat.

“I don’t,” said Harry, then glanced around to make sure no one had heard him. “But I like Luna. And I do like some crafts.”

“You like some crafts,” Malfoy repeated blankly.

Harry shrugged. “I crochet.”

Malfoy’s face went as blank as his voice.

“Harry.” Luna’s melodic voice floated into his periphery. He turned to find her standing there in a watery dress that fell to the ground, her pale hair pinned back over her ears. “I didn’t see you arrive.”

“I just got here.” He grinned at her. “You’ve done a fantastic job.”

Luna hummed, glancing back over the studio as if she’d just noticed it. “Oh, it’s all the students.” Her gaze fell back on them. “What were you two talking about?”

“Potter’s crocheting,” said Malfoy, a little milder now she was here.

“Ah, yes, he made me these earrings.” Luna retrieved the blue wool hearts from under her hair. “They’re my favourites.”

Harry laughed. “You don’t have to lie, Luna.”

“They are,” she insisted, patting his arm with pride. “They were made with kind and genuine intentions.”

Malfoy had gone pale.

A visitor lured Luna away after that, asking questions about a tapestry woven into a branch on the other side of the room. Harry gave Malfoy a look.

“Alright there?”

“I’m brilliant,” said Malfoy. He fiddled with his cufflinks. Now Harry recognised the look on his face; it was the same one Harry had given the business card.

Harry couldn’t help himself: “Not what you expected?”

Malfoy huffed out a half-laugh. Then, also like he couldn’t help himself: “I don’t know many straight men who crochet.”

“Who said I was straight?”

Malfoy looked up so sharply it must’ve cricked his neck.

“Harry!” Someone called out, and when he looked over he saw Seamus and Neville, waving him over. He glanced back at Malfoy, but he had already slid away into the crowd. Harry went.

“There he is!” said Seamus once he got closer, clapping him on that back. “Good man. Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

“Thought I’d drop by.”

“Done a good job tidying up the place. She and Neville spent the whole of yesterday painting and lifting.”

“I’m just the brawn.” Neville gave Harry one of his signature smiles, all jaw and sincere modesty. “Lovegood’s the one with the vision.”

“It’s brilliant,” said Harry. “I like the stick.”

“One hell of stick,” Seamus agreed. “Dean and Ginny are here as well, somewhere.”

“Behind you, actually,” Neville said mildly, and then Harry was turning around and there she was, hair spitting flames, freckles sprayed across her nose.

“Harry,” she said, eyes widening. “Hello.”

“Hello,” he said.

She was also wearing a blazer, some kind of navy cut that screamed girl boss. Her favourite doc martens were plastered with dry mud. Beside her Dean was in a leather jacket, his long brown throat protruding above the lapel. His lips quirked up at Harry.

“Have you guys seen the stick yet?” Harry asked.

Any chance of answering was overwhelmed by a series of greeting and catching up between everyone. They were adults; they all had their own jobs and schedules and it was rare, perhaps rarer than they themselves had realised, that there were this many of them in the same room together these days.

At some mid-point in the catch ups, Harry found himself looking over their heads, scanning the room. His eyes met the long white cliff of Malfoy’s side-profile as he gazed towards a series of hanging samplers.

“Have you heard from him lately?” asked Ginny. They had found themselves wandering the exhibit on their own, others having departed for drinks or to say hello to other people. Dean elbowing Seamus, whose head was thrown back in laughter.

It had been a long time since the break-up. Harry allowed himself to be led through a maze of mannequins wearing knitted lingerie.

“Not really,” he admitted. “We talked a bit about the Chudley win last week.”

Ginny nodded, not looking at him. “He doesn’t answer Mum’s letters.”

Harry hummed at one of the mannequins. He’d never seen neon green wool before.

“She wants you to come around for Sunday lunch, sometime.”

Harry gave her a look.

“You should. Just because he’s not there doesn’t mean you’re not family.”

“I know that. I just – I’ve been busy.”

“Another project?” Ginny smirked, a little. She looked glad for a reason too. “What is it this time? Weed bacon? Tattooed eyeballs?”

“Hah. No, it’s. Uh. I probably shouldn’t say it in an environment with minors.”

“Not eyeballs, then.” Ginny smirked wider.

“Hey, Ginny,” Harry said suddenly. “What do you call something so ridiculous it stops being funny?”

“Stops being funny?” Ginny flipped her hair over her padded shoulder good-naturedly. “Time to quit my job, probably.”

“Hah,” Harry said again. His eyes found Malfoy again, who was already looking at him.

“Is that beer or cider?” she asked as Dean joined them. Harry smiled at him and found an excuse to break off.

Malfoy didn’t watch Harry approach, but Harry could sense he was waiting. As he got closer he saw that the samplers had erections embroidered into them, above lilac lettering that spelled out: _YAOI SUPREMACY_ and _DON’T LIKE DON’T READ._

“Ballsy,” Harry noted. “Wish I could say I didn’t get it.”

Malfoy barked out a surprised laugh. “Ever seen Yuri on Ice?”

“That was a good one,” Harry agreed. “If you ever visit Japan, you could work in one of those little cafés.”

The blush was climbing back up Malfoy’s throat. “You just miss the maid outfit.”

It was Harry’s turn to laugh. Finally, Malfoy turned to look at him.

“How’s the visual poem going?” He asked, after a moment.

“Great.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, fantastic.”

Malfoy hummed, a little considering sound. “I suppose you’ll send me a copy before it’s posted.”

“You suppose correct.”

There was a rise in the sound from behind them. They turned around to see Harry’s friends leaving.

“Isn’t that your cue?” Malfoy murmured, eyes on Harry’s beard.

“Probably.” He didn’t move. Malfoy was wearing earrings, he saw now. Little pearl things, the kind of earrings a real woman might wear to work, or dinner.

Malfoy leaned a little closer. Anyone else watching would have hardly noticed it. Harry noticed it.

“I’m going to a show after this,” he said, lowering his voice and his gaze. His lashes were very light, fanning against the blush of his cheeks. He looked like a porcelain doll under the white lights in that moment, a delicate lacey doll to be dressed and undressed. “At Toxic. Benjamin is performing. You remember Benjamin.”

“I remember Benjamin.”

“I like to order a glass of Merlot, but it’s better value if you get a bottle.”

Harry turned his head, smirking. Malfoy really was leaning. “Is that financial literacy I smell?”

Malfoy leaned back, eyebrows pushing into a fold. When Malfoy was uncertain, his eyebrows formed a crease that was more a dot than a line.

“No,” he said, dot deepening. “It’s Bamboo by Gucci.”

Harry laughed again. “When are you leaving?”

Malfoy looked away, pleased. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Toxic was one of the reigning corners of the pink triangle a few blocks over from Harry’s apartment. They got there in no time, since Malfoy was wearing men’s shoes.

There was a small queue. Malfoy kept darting looks at Harry when he thought he wasn’t paying attention, as if to check he hadn’t run off. Once they were in, Malfoy found them a small table near the front of the stage. It was already busy, and the lights were darkening.

Malfoy ordered the bottle and then turned his assessing eyes back on Harry.

“You’ve been here before, too,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“I took Hermione here once.” Harry poured himself a drink. “You should’ve seen her face.”

Malfoy’s dainty brows raised, but his voice was still placid. “So, you don’t have any gay friends?”

“I have Luna.”

Malfoy smiled, despite himself. “Yes, Lovegood. I meant men.”

Harry poured Malfoy a glass as well. “I have you.”

Malfoy shot him a startled look just as the curtains rose.

A glamourous Queen was standing at a microphone, her padded curves swathed in a fishtail gown. Her blonde coiffure was swept up in a classic pageant do. Her eyebrows were drawn on at an angle that made her look permanently appalled with what she saw.

“Theydys and Gentlethem,” she announced. “Boys and Girls. You are gathered here tonight to witness the prodigy, the legendary, the feminine and the fishy Benjamin Poppers! Put your paws together children! Let me hear them.”

Harry applauded as she swept off to the side, where there was an iphone lying on top of a pair of huge speakers. She fiddled with the password. A familiar whir of alarm bells rang through the building.

Benjamin Poppers was being rolled onstage. She was in a poised in a chair, draped in a nude illusion bodysuit, bald scalp glistening under the spotlight. Her bedazzled nipples winked as she leaned further back in the chair, microphone in hand.

_Superstar, where you from? How's it going?_

_I know you got a clue what you're doing_

_You can play brand new to all the other chicks out here_

_But I know what you are, what you are, baby_

Malfoy whooped. Harry stared at him.

Benjamin Poppers was strutting a tight circle around the chair, dumptruck ass wobbling behind her. She had a bedazzled tramp-stamp, Harry noticed.

_Boy don't try to front, I-I_

_Know just, just, what you are, are-are_

Malfoy was singing along. Benjamin blew a kiss at the beefcake that was the bouncer.

_Womanizer, woman-womanizer, you're a womanizer_

_Oh, womanizer, oh, you're a womanizer, baby_

Benjamin topped it all off by upending a bucket of ice water over her body. The crowd went wild.

“That’s my girl,” breathed Malfoy, finally coming back to his seat. His bow had come loose at some point, and his fringe had stuck in places to his forehead. His ears were red. The glass came up; he threw his head back, throat working as he swallowed it down. Harry felt it sinking into his own gut.

“What did you think?”

“She’s good.”

“She’s a walking trophy. Don’t give me those congenial platitudes.” Malfoy knocked back another glass. “I could marry her right now.”

“Should I leave you?” Harry asked, amused.

“Sit down.” Malfoy grabbed his shoulder over the table, even though he was already sitting. The hand didn’t push, just held him in place. “Don’t tell her I said that. Who did you see last time you were here?”

“Uh. Bubblegum something?”

“She stole one of Benjamin’s hairpieces.” Malfoy seemed to realise he was still holding down Harry. He retracted his hand immediately, fumbling with his wine glass.

“Why aren’t you up there?” asked Harry.

“What?” Malfoy’s head whipped around. “What did you say?”

“Why aren’t you up there?” asked Harry. “On the stage. Performing.”

Malfoy looked blankly at him. “Why would I be?”

“Because you’re good.” It was obvious to Harry. “Besides, you like to perform.”

“What do you mean, I like to perform? How do you know what I like? You don’t. How would you?”

Harry was half-laughing. “Malfoy. I saw you in school.”

The dot appeared between Malfoy’s eyebrows. “I wasn’t myself in school.”

The next act opened up, a Queen with hair even redder than Ginny’s. They didn’t talk again until the next interlude.

“Are you yourself now?” asked Harry, once the applause had died down.

Malfoy looked at him and then away again. “Is this a part of the interview?”

“No.”

“I was joking.” Malfoy looked at him, and this time his eyes stayed. “Are you yourself?”

Harry held his eyes. “I don’t know. I think I’m getting there.”

“Me too,” said Malfoy.

The table really was very small between them. They were on stools, and the wine took up most of the room. Malfoy’s hair stuck to the side of his brow, and his lips were thin and pink above the white pyramid of his chin. He didn’t look like a woman, and he didn’t look like a man either.

He looked exactly like Draco Malfoy.

Then next act came on, and then it was the interlude. A few people seemed to recognise Malfoy, stopping to chat to him and eyeing Harry up rather obviously. Then Benjamin came by.

“Potter!” he exclaimed. “I see Malfoy managed to reel you in after all. How’s the net?”

“Uh. Cosy?”

“Where’s your cleavage?” Malfoy bent backwards over the stool and rubbed his palms on Benjamin’s chest, which was now adorned in a pink gown. “I miss it.”

“Hibernating.” Benjamin picked up the Merlot and drank directly from it. Malfoy stole a stool from a table occupied by a couple who had gone out for a smoke. They both settled in and ordered more wine.

“Harry,” demanded Benjamin, after a thorough bitchfest about Princess Bubblegum. “Have you ever seen Astoria perform?”

Harry gave Malfoy a look. “He just told me he didn’t perform.”

“She does if we get another bottle after this.”

“Every time,” Malfoy groaned into his hands. Matter of fact, he already looked pretty sparkled, his blush deepening into a rich scarlet and sticking. “Every time I bring someone, you do this.”

“You bring other people?” Harry teased over the rim of his glass. “Do you use the same line and everything?”

Malfoy spread his fingers enough to glare at Harry through them. “I didn’t use a _line.”_

Benjamin cackled. “Astoria reels in every green-eyed trade.”

Malfoy snatched Benjamin’s glass from him and then proceeded to push him off his stool. They were in the middle of wrestling when the fourth act began.

As the night continued, Harry felt its black wings spread and glimmer. Beside him, Malfoy got drunker and drunker, and Benjamin laughed harder and harder. He kept catching Malfoy’s eye during jokes he didn’t understand. When Benjamin left to catch up with another Queen, Malfoy took his stool, downing the rest of his wine.

Harry took the chance to say what he’d been waiting to say. “Green-eyes, huh?”

“That’s right, Potter.” Somehow, Malfoy got posher as he got drunker. “Green is a Slytherin colour, you know.”

“Sure.” Harry agreeing easily. It was possible he was a little drunk himself. “It’s definitely open for interpretation.”

“The colour of traffic lights!” Malfoy jumped in. He was gesticulating with his bony, elegant hands. “Floo powder! Mint ice cream!”

“Absolutely,” Harry said again. “And…grey is the colour of rain.”

Malfoy stopped gesticulating. He leaned forward, chin propped up on his wrist. His veins were blue.

“Exactly,” he drawled.

“And metal,” Harry tacked. “And…other things.”

“Other things.” Malfoy swirled a circle into the water stains on the table-top. “I’d like to know all about them.”

“I’d like to know, too,” said Harry, mimicking Malfoy’s posture. It was possible he was…quite drunk. “I think.”

The little smile on Malfoy’s face dropped, not quite unpleasantly. He was looking at Harry’s beard again.

“You can touch it,” Harry offered, lifting his jaw.

Malfoy’s eyes widened in something like alarm. Enough seconds passed that Harry began to feel embarrassed, but then Malfoy lifted his fingers. They were long, like his arm, like his face. They were long, and they quivered as they curled, ever so gently, around Harry’s jaw. Harry wrapped his hand around Malfoy’s wrist to still them, around the bouquet of blue veins.

Malfoy widened further. He looked like he wanted to look away but couldn’t.

“You…” He licked his lips. Swallowed.

Malfoy’s pulse was a ticking bomb under Harry’s thumb. The longer Harry held it, the more Malfoy looked afraid.

Harry let go, took a drink to cover himself. Malfoy was quiet beside him. The show was finishing, the blonde Queen doing her final soliloquy.

“Were you laughing at me earlier?” Malfoy asked from beside him.

Harry glanced over. Malfoy appeared surprisingly sober. 

“What?”

“Earlier. In the studio. About the crochet.”

Harry stared.

Malfoy flicked his eyes heavenward, muttering. “Forget it.”

“Just tell me, Malfoy.”

“You said…” Malfoy muttered to himself a little more. “You _said…”_

All of a sudden, Harry realised what the problem was.

“I wasn’t being funny,” he said quickly. “I meant it.”

Malfoy looked at him. He looked at him as the blonde Queen finished and the crowd clapped. He looked at him as the curtains lowered. He looked at him as people were putting on their coats.

Harry wondered if he saw a man.

Outside, the air was frosty, fragranced with the excitement that came with a day that had just ended and a night that had just begun. Malfoy had a grey overcoat, a grey the colour of rain, and metal, and other things.

“I live close by,” said Harry, knowing now that he had been trying to say it all evening. “No wine, but there’s firewhiskey.”

Malfoy’s eyes were very clear and very bright. His breath released in little white puffs that escaped towards the stars.

“Is that a line?” he asked, softer than Harry had expected.

Harry smiled. "It's just the truth."

"I suppose it's only fair. I somehow keep finding you in my house."

"For the project."

"Yes, Harry," said Malfoy, turning around. "For the project." 

He stepped out into the black street, a cream dot in the middle of it all, and Harry followed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid this chapter had more weight than crack, since I have to have *something* to work with. Regardless, I hope it still makes sense with what's come before. I wrote most of this just now, a direct result of reading Lettered's new chapters of By The Grace. Who else is reading it? Surely everyone in the drarry community (god, what a phrase). Please, fangirl about it with me. Lettered has singlehandedly ruined my life, and dominatrix Draco exists merely to lap at the wounds. 
> 
> Also, I realise this chapter ending reads a lot like an Ending. It is not the Ending. There is a little more to come, although I haven't entirely decided what yet. (Hahahaahahah.) Let me know what you thought. 
> 
> This chapter's song is not, as you might expect, Womaniser by Britney Spears. It is Babylon by Lady Gaga. Or The Edge of Glory. Probably Babylon.


	5. No Garnish, I'm Afraid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, so there's porn. Please check the updated tags.

Harry’s flat had an open plan kitchen to the right of the front door. In the middle was a long island, with a sleek black finish on all its cabinet doors. Malfoy perched on the island, pyramid chin raised on his clasped fingers. The hanging bottles above had _lumos_ infused moon fragments, and they sent halos rippling down over Malfoy’s marmoreal forehead. Harry wanted to dip his fingers in it.

“This is more artistry that I’d expect from a bachelor’s pad,” Malfoy commented, off-hand. He was walking two fingers over the silky black table-top, his white lashes drawn down. His cheeks were still flushed from the wine. He looked healthy, happy. Like a cat curling around its dish of cream.

Harry put his hands on the opposite side of the island, putting his weight on them. It was solid, smooth. He nodded up at the moon fragments without looking at them.

“Hermione got me them a couple birthdays ago. I went through a space phase.”

“Is that so?” Malfoy’s index finger slowed in its pace. It drew a semi-circle out from his middle finger, sweeping over the black space. “I don’t recall you being fond of astrology in school.”

“I don’t recall you being fond of petticoats.”

Malfoy glanced up. Harry was almost smiling at him, looming where he was on the other side. The flush climbed higher on Malfoy’s face.

His expression didn’t change save for his lashes dropping back down. “Touché. Oh, but I was. You should’ve seen what was under my robes.”

Harry felt himself shift. “You said you weren’t yourself.”

Malfoy’s lashes moved up and down again. “I was. I wasn’t. You know what they say. Give a man a gimp mask.” He straightened up abruptly, his hands moving wider apart on the sides of the table-top. “Oh, it’s such a bore to talk about school. I never knew you lived so close. There’s a café a few streets down that bakes wonderful bagels. They put halloumi in them, and this sauce – delectable. Do you like bagels, Harry?”

“It’s a bore,” Harry repeated, almost amused.

Malfoy nodded sharply, still not looking at him. “Merlin, the finish on this. I should do something like it myself. And what have we here?” He was opening the cabinets, turning his back to Harry. “Shakers? Are you a bartender as well as a journalist as well as being the saviour of the Wizarding World? Remarkable. A true renaissance man.”

Harry tilted his head to the side, considering. Malfoy had taken out a martini glass and was examining it under the moonlight.

“I’ll make you a firewhiskey sour,” he said finally. “If you like.”

Malfoy turned his head to the side, listening. “I’ve never had one,” he said carelessly.

“I like them.” Harry dug out the lemon juice, the angostura bitters, the eggs. Beside him, sugar and water poured themselves wordlessly into a saucepan. A spoon hovered in the air beside them, ready to stir.

He could feel Malfoy’s eyes on him, but when he looked over Malfoy was swirling patterns onto the table-top again. Perhaps he didn’t know what to say. Harry rarely did, when he had people over.

His heart skipped a bit again. He had _Malfoy_ over.

As if reading his mind, Malfoy said, “You do this a lot then.”

Harry was searching for garnish. It wasn’t really important, except it probably was to Malfoy, who looked and lived like his life’s purpose to swirl around in an oversized cocktail glass.

“What?” he asked, banishing the image from his mind.

“Collect souvenirs of your adventures. A volcanic rock here, a limpet shell there, a fridge magnet to top it all off. You must see some worldly sights. Whatever did happen with the men on Mount Earnest?”

“Erm. Souvenirs?”

There definitely weren’t cherries. Surely he had oranges somewhere under a preservative spell.

“Perhaps you took them to a nice little pub at the bottom and bought them pints. Perhaps you checked the state of their apparatus down there as well. It makes sense, as a control. Although, there are a lot of variables in that equation.”

There weren’t even oranges. Was he letting himself go?

“You’re doing that thing,” Harry murmured, standing up and going to check on the syrup.

“Making conversation?” Malfoy suggested, politely.

“Rambling.” The syrup was fine. Harry looked over at Malfoy, who was leaning nonchalantly on the edge of the island, hand in pockets. “Why is that?”

Malfoy didn’t look away, but he looked like he wanted to. “It’s a stylistic choice.”

“Sure.” Harry let the spoon slow in its circles as the syrup thickened, until it was dragging languidly against the translucent ripples. He turned his back to it so he could lean as well, facing Malfoy. “I didn’t fuck the men on Mount Everest.”

“But did you fuck in that nice little pub at the bottom? There’s always one, you know.”

“I didn’t do any fucking,” said Harry. “Why would I?”

“Oh, I hardly know. What makes one want to fuck anything?” Malfoy was fiddling with some lint he’d found. “It’s a conundrum, a real stumper. One may only speculate.”

“What about you?”

“Hmm?” Malfoy pressed the lint under the fingernail of his thumb. “Little old me?”

“What makes you want to fuck?”

Finally, Malfoy looked up again. “It’s in the job description,” he said, after a moment.

“That’s what you like? Being in control?”

Malfoy swallowed. He didn’t look in control, perched precariously as he was in Harry’s kitchen, with Harry’s moon lights falling down onto his face. He looked like a man clinging to a dinghy boat amidst a sea storm.

“Or is it just…a job?”

“I like it,” said Malfoy.

“Yeah?”

“I like the rush. I like the precision of it. I like the way they give themselves up to me, the complete and total trust.”

Harry raised his brows at _trust._

“No, no.” Malfoy’s voice fell to a hush, and he gained confidence suddenly, standing up straighter. “Harry, you should see the way they fold right up on themselves and just…wait. For whatever I say. Whatever impulse I entertain. They’re so still. You wouldn’t believe it, that total submission, unless you’d seen it.”

“I have,” said Harry.

The air between them grew very thick. Harry was remembering it, and he knew Malfoy was too – knew he had made Malfoy think of it, that he had put it in his mind. He could count the spaces between them, the steps it would take to – one, cross into Malfoy’s space – two, take a hold of his hip through his coat – three, roll him over onto his belly – four, bend him at the hips – five, wrap his other hand around the front of Malfoy’s throat – six, move his first to pin Malfoy’s wrists onto the table-top.

Six. Six steps. The air between them _glimmered._

Malfoy’s eyes were very wide. His pulse was playing a little staccato in the thin soft skin just beneath his chin, and his cheeks looked like someone had crushed raspberries on them.

“You should take off your coat,” Harry told him.

For a moment, Harry thought he wasn’t going to move. Then with slow, deliberate movement, Malfoy sheathed his grey overcoat. He had to stand a fraction closer to pull it down at the shoulders.

Five steps.

Malfoy handed him the jacket. Soft material filled his hands. He stepped closer – _four, three_ – then stepped past him, going to hang the jacket on the coat rack by the door.

Malfoy’s eyelids fluttered closed.

Harry stood on the other end of the room for a beat, just watching him. His hands were still closed around that soft, soft material.

“Waiting,” he said, slowly. “That’s what you like.”

Malfoy’s eyes opened. They were sharp. “That’s not all I like. Harry, I –”

He swallowed, breaking it off. Harry’s hands tightened in the coat. “Say it.”

Malfoy was painfully quiet. Then – “You never answered my question.”

Harry wanted to close his eyes and lean into the grey overcoat. Instead, he said, “I don’t know what makes anyone want it. Everyone wants such different things.”

Malfoy dropped his head, disappointed. “Yes.”

“Sometimes I don’t know I want things until they’re right in front of me. Before that, it’s…too far away.”

Malfoy lifted his head.

“You must know,” he said, voice hoarse. “You must know sometimes.” Then, when Harry didn’t say anything, “How do you live –?”

“I invited you round, Malfoy,” Harry interrupted quietly.

Malfoy froze, like he hadn’t expected it, even though they’d been talking about it for the last ten minutes.

“I know that.” Harry finally let go of the coat. “It doesn’t have to be so…difficult.”

Malfoy’s eyes grew gentle. “Doesn’t it?”

“No.” He wanted to believe it. People made things difficult because they couldn’t be honest with themselves but being with someone was really just – an agreement. All someone had to do was ask, and all the other person had to do was say yes. Like – “I live close by,” and then – “Alright, Harry.”

“It can be simple,” said Harry. “Just tell me what you want.”

Malfoy drew in a deep breath. “I’m not the one with complications here,” was all he said.

“Neither am I.” This was already convoluted. Harry didn’t understand why Malfoy was talking in circles. “Just tell me.”

Malfoy just breathed.

Stepping closer, he decided to make it even easier. “I want to put my hand on your cheek. Do you want that too?”

Malfoy’s breath drew in closer. Harry stopped right in front of him, and Malfoy sort of looked like he wanted to bolt, except – “Do it.”

“Do you want it?” Harry asked softly.

“Harry,” said Malfoy, and his gaze dropped away. “Yes.”

Harry reached out. It shouldn’t have been so charged, the movement of his fingers extending through the air, except now that he had consent, he had to actually do it. He hadn’t really thought about what it would be to touch Draco Malfoy, in his kitchen, on a Friday night. He had thought about what it would mean; not how it would feel.

But here – it was happening, his fingers were brushing the skin of his cheekbone, and then his palm was cresting the arc of his jaw, and it was all softer and smaller than Harry had known it would be. Malfoy’s face was very hot, and his eyes were still cast down, and Harry’s skin looked so very brown next to the mottled milk of Malfoy’s skin. He couldn’t get over it, how deep and warm his hand looked on Draco Malfoy’s face, and he didn’t mean to fetishize here but it really was exotic; Malfoy was as white as a dove, white as virginity, white as violence. Harry was holding him in place without using any force at all.

“I want you to look at me,” he said, timbre gathering in his throat. There was a smoky flavour in the air.

“I want to look at you,” Malfoy whispered, but he closed his eyes.

“That’s good,” said Harry, because he was trying to get Malfoy to communicate. “That’s so good.”

Malfoy’s eyes were moving under his lids. “I want you to say my name.”

“Malfoy.”

“My first name.”

There was a pause. Malfoy’s eyes opened. “Don’t you want to, Harry?” he asked, still gentle.

Harry didn’t know. “Draco,” he tried. Malfoy’s face shuttered.

“Don’t do that,” said Harry, and without thinking leveraged Malfoy’s face to keep looking at him. Malfoy’s eyes burned hot.

“Better,” said Harry, and Malfoy’s pink little mouth fell open. His breath was coming quick now, his tongue darting out to lick anxiously at his thin lower lip. Harry wanted to stretch it thinner.

He leaned in. “I want this,” he murmured lowly. “Do you want it too?”

The flush in Malfoy’s cheeks was spreading all over his face. He tried to nod in Harry’s steel grip, best he could. Harry’s lips lifted.

“Good boy,” he said, and pulled down Malfoy’s lower lip with the tip of his tongue.

“Oh, god,” said Malfoy, screwing his eyes shut.

Harry could feel his breath coming quick over the back of his hand. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed the pad of thumb onto the flat end of Malfoy’s tongue and slid it in.

“Oh, _god,”_ Malfoy half-wept, the words muffled around Harry’s thumb. Harry could feel his tongue working under where he was pinning it down.

“Yeah,” he said, “Suck it.”

Malfoy instantly obliged, cheeks hollowing out like his life depended on it. His tongue kept working, swirling round and round, suckling at the tip, just like it was Harry’s real cock, just like he was trying to show Harry what it would be like.

“Just like that,” Harry said, “Suck it just like that. You’re such a good boy, so good showing Daddy how well you suck it.”

Malfoy made a high, wailing sound, his forehead crumpling as if in pain. Harry dug his thumb in deeper. Malfoy relaxed his throat.

“Fuck.” Harry had to grip the edge of the island, herding Malfoy in. He rubbed his thumb up and down, massaging the wet, intimate tissue there. Malfoy just took it like a fucking pro. His cock was a hard line resting on Harry’s hip.

“You’re so fucking hungry for it.” Harry finally retracted his thumb, carefully easing it out. Malfoy sucked even harder, as if he wanted to keep it there. As if he would feel the loss.

But Harry kept easing out, his thumb emerging with a slick pop. Malfoy sighed. Harry then began to draw circles with it, spreading Malfoy’s spit messily over his own mouth.

He lowered his head to Malfoy’s shoulder. “If this was my cock, I’d get my come all over your face. I’d rub it into your red mouth. I’d get it in your eyelashes.”

“Harry!” Malfoy keened, his hips coming up off the table. Harry slammed him back into it. Malfoy gave a short sob.

“Do you feel that?” he grunted and punctuated it with a harsh thrust. “Do you feel that big thing? I’m going to put it in your mouth.”

“Oh, my days,” Malfoy gasped.

“Look at me.”

“I can’t,” he replied instantly.

“Do it.”

“Harry.”

“Do it because I want you to.”

Malfoy opened his eyes. They were red at the corners, silver stark against the wide white. He looked so – god help him – vulnerable.

“Good,” said Harry, and then – “Keep looking,” because he was pushing two fingers into Malfoy’s mouth.

Malfoy moaned throatily, eyes rolling back. Harry grabbed the back of his neck.

Malfoy’s eyes shot open. Harry had him against the island, head cradled between the grip on his throat and the fingers fucking his mouth. It was perfection, Harry realised belatedly.

He couldn’t help it; he rolled into Malfoy’s body. Malfoy made a small, desperate sound.

There was a damp spot near the bottom of Harry’s jumper. He stiffened, surprised.

_“Malfoy,”_ he said, breaking character, and then looked at him more closely. “Is it that good?”

Malfoy made another sound, more like a protest. Harry was still holding him in place.

“It’s okay,” he said suddenly, before Malfoy could panic. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. It’s good for me too.” He rolled his hips again, almost like a kindness. “Do you feel how hard I am?” he said gently. “That’s all for you, Draco.”

_“Fuck,”_ Malfoy said, distinct even through all the obstacles, and Harry tightened the grip on his throat. He rolled again.

“I’ll do it just like this,” he promised. “I’ll fuck you just like this, right here. You just take it, Draco.” Another roll. He was still cradling Draco’s head, like something precious. Malfoy’s hips didn’t even have room to squirm, room to do anything except wait for it.

“Just like this.” He was well into a rhythm now. “I’ll take you just like this. I’ll have you right here, in my kitchen, against the table. I’ll take care of you, Draco.”

Draco swore again, abruptly frantic, hands coming up to shove Harry’s shoulders. Harry stepped back, removing his fingers.

_“Stop,”_ said Malfoy, once he could talk. “Stop, I’m going to – I’m going to –”

His hips came up again, even though Harry was no longer there. Then he gathered himself, clutching at the island, chest rising and falling under his blouse as he tried to calm down. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was looking everywhere but Harry.

“It’s okay,” said Harry, after a moment. He wasn’t quite sure what to say. Malfoy looked so _distraught_ , when he had been having, well, such a good time a few seconds ago. He really did look on the brink of it, pink everywhere, tense as a bowstring. “Really.” A pause. “I was into it, too.”

“Merlin.” Malfoy pushed himself off the island and went around to the sink, back to Harry. There, he filled a glass with water, the muggle way. He drank it slowly, pacing himself. Harry waited.

“Is that what you want?” Malfoy asked finally, sounding more like a person. His back muscles were bunched tight. “To make me come in my trousers like a – to make me, to, to –”

He broke off again, took another drink of water. His hand was trembling.

“I didn’t make you,” Harry said, carefully. Had he?

“You would,” said Malfoy. “You want to.”

“Only if you do too.”

“You make me do awful things,” said Malfoy, ignoring him. “Things I would never do otherwise.”

“Malfoy,” said Harry, almost reaching out again, because Malfoy’s voice was awful.

The muscles in Malfoy’s back bunched even tighter. “I should never have come here.”

“What?” Harry resisted the impulse to grab him. “Why would you say that?”

Malfoy didn’t say anything. Harry felt his voice grow small. “I thought you wanted it.”

“It’s not about what I want,” Malfoy said, still in that low voice. “Don’t you see that?”

He turned around, his face bare. “What I want is so simple. So very simple. We can pretend it isn’t, but it is. We can pretend this is about me, but it’s about you, Harry.”

“It wouldn’t be if you just told me what it is,” Harry sniped, starting to lose his patience.

“I’m in love with you,” said Malfoy.

The room hollowed out, like a spoon cleaving out the contents of a fruit in one fellow swoop. Malfoy’s words were that spoon, and the air was that fruit.

Harry stared. He didn’t want to just – stare, but that’s what he did.

Malfoy held his gaze, steadfast, resolute. _Now_ he chose to look at him?

He softened after a moment. “You really didn’t know?” It was tender in a way a parent was to a child. Harry could barely stand it.

“It’s alright,” Malfoy said again – gently, as if it didn’t cost him a thing at all, and moved away from the stove. “Let’s have that firewhiskey now.”

Numbly, Harry checked the sugar syrup. It had burned.

“Sorry,” he said, and waved to put some more on.

“Harry,” said Malfoy. “Don’t say sorry.”

For some reason this made the heat churn up into Harry’s neck, his face. He could feel it under his beard.

Over at the island, he poured summoned the firewhiskey and poured out a thumb into each glass anyway. “Rocks?” he asked.

“Neat is fine,” Malfoy said quietly.

Harry slid it over to him. “How long?”

Malfoy’s fingers hovered where they were about to close over the glass. “Shall we sit down?” he asked, glancing out towards the unlit living room.

There was a TV opposite the island, and the sofas at either end. A raw birch coffee table sat on its legs between them. The legs were real branches.

Harry switched on the two lamps windlessly, which he had thrifted with Luna in Greece. They flooded the room with a warm, orange glow, an almost obnoxious contrast to the spotlight over the island.

Harry and Draco sat on separate sofas.

“I thought that’s why you asked me to lunch,” Draco said. “Because you’d seen it on me.”

“You didn’t think I was asking you because I liked you.”

“No.” A pause. “You’re obsessive. Curious. I didn’t think you would have left me alone, had you known.”

“Thanks for that.” Harry said it to his untouched tumbler, sitting on the coffee table. It looked unmovable. “Why’d you like me, then?”

“You’re doing it right now,” said Draco. “Prodding at the wound. Checking to see if it’s an entrance.”

“It’s strange to describe love as a wound.”

“Not if you’re me,” said Draco. “Not if it’s you.” He took a sip of the firewhiskey.

“How long?” Harry asked again.

“Harry.” Chastising.

It was too much. Harry rubbed his scar.

Draco finished off his whiskey. “I’ll go.”

“No.” Harry’s head shot up. “Don’t.”

Draco met his gaze steadily. He stood.

“Please,” said Harry, standing too, but Draco just poured himself another thumb. Then, as if on second thought, brought the whole bottle back over.

Asshole. He could’ve done it the wizard way.

“When did you become so muggle?” Harry asked.

Draco shot him a look, but it was brief. “I was looking for an escape.”

“That’s –”

“Ironic? See, I know how your little mind works.” Draco sipped the firewhiskey. “There’s not much tolerance for queer expression amidst old blood circles, funnily enough.”

“You were cast out.”

“I left.” Draco’s eyes flickered towards him, but they remained ambivalent. “You don’t think it was going to be heroic, did you? My father still doesn’t know where I am.” Another sip. “Don’t try to be proud of me, Harry Potter.”  
  


“I’m not.”  
  


“Well,” Draco murmured, all velvet tongue. “Thank god for that.” Another sip.

Harry wanted to say, _I don’t hate you anymore,_ again, but even he knew what little good that did either of them. Draco was just sitting there, on the other, drinking firewhiskey and loving him. Trying to understand it was like trying to understand the size of space, or how magic worked, or why he’d grown up in a closet.

Outside, the dull thud of rain was picking up. It was a _thwip-thwip-thwip_ catching at the black glass of Harry’s living room. He thought he could see rain emptying itself into the gutter down the street.

“I feel like this isn’t the sort of thing people are supposed to sit in silence about,” Harry said eventually.

“You’re the one who wanted me to stay,” Draco said softly.

Harry looked at him. Draco must have felt it, but he kept looking out the window, watching the water churn through the pavement. It made the cement look like it was still setting.

“Am I making you?” asked Harry.

Draco was quiet for a moment. “No,” he said, eventually. Then – “Aren’t you ever terrified of yourself, Harry Potter?”

“Sometimes. During the war. Tonight.”

“Am I making you?” asked Draco, but he didn’t really sound like he meant it.

Harry answered honestly anyway. “No. You’re right; I was curious about you.”

“I know.”

“You’re –” He thought of Delia, “– different.”

“I know.” Draco sounded tired instead of pleased, like Harry had thought he would be.

“It’s not in a bad way.”

“Isn’t it, a little?” Draco had finished his second drink and running a finger around the glass rim. “Actually, let’s not worry about it.”

“You surprised me,” said Harry. “By being different. It made me realise that I don’t know you.”

Now Draco met his eyes. They were liquid in the amber lamp light.

“If you knew all this,” said Harry, “then why did you come over?”

Draco ran his finger over the glass rim. He licked his lips.

“Because I wanted to touch you,” he said, at long last.

Harry felt himself blush hard again, right from the root of his spine. “Oh.”

Draco set the glass down. His face was remarkably sober. “Can I do that?”

“Will it –” Harry licked his lips too, “ – won’t it be complicated?”

“I told you,” said Draco quietly, not looking up. “It’s very simple.”

Harry looked at him. He heard the rain, and he smelt the sweetness of melting.

“Alright,” he said. “I'll finish making the whiskey sours, and then you’ll touch me.”

Draco’s mouth parted, a little like a gasp. Harry stood and checked the syrup – it had almost burned again – then summoned it, the whiskey, the bitters, the egg white, the lemon juice and the ice all into the shaker. He rolled his sleeves up and shook it, hard.

Draco come into the kitchen as well, trailing behind. He stared at Harry’s exposed forearm as if it was something explicit.

Harry raised a brow. He tipped the liquid into the two tumblers. “No garnish, I’m afraid.”

“Come here,” Draco blurted, then pressed his lips together.

Harry’s stomach lurched. He didn’t know if it was fear or excitement. He didn’t know what he was feeling. He drank the whiskey sour.

“Not bad,” he said, mostly because it felt crass to just ignore it.

Draco glanced at his like he’d forgotten about it. He knocked it back like a shot, barely tasting it. Harry laughed.

“What?” Draco frowned, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“Nothing.” Harry came around the island. “Where do – how –”

Draco’s eyes darted towards the island and then away. “The sofa,” he said, showing no inclination to move there himself.

Harry went and sat down on the sofa that Draco had been sitting on before they’d got up. Draco took a great deal of time putting his tumbler down. Then he walked over, stopping before Harry.

Harry’s breath suddenly left his chest. It was like before, when he had touched Draco’s cheek and hadn’t realised what it would be. Now, it was going to happen, and god, it felt like he’d been waiting all night for it. Fire burned through his body.

Draco crouched down on the floor before him. He put a hand on Harry’s chest.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he murmured.

“Draco,” said Harry. Draco’s eyes flashed up. “Touch me.”

Pink blossomed in Draco’s cheeks. Harry hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it. Strange that it could feel like so long since Harry had had him pressed up against the island, on the edge of orgasm. Draco fumbled, fingers curling into Harry’s t-shirt. Harry pulled it off.

“Fuck,” said Draco, looking away and back three times in succession. Harry laughed again.

“What the fuck are you laughing for?” Draco scowled, even as his hand returned to Harry’s chest, dragging it down over Harry’s happy trail. Not like someone who had just professed their unrequited love at all.

“Nothing,” said Harry, giddy. “You’re just – funny.”

“I’ll show you funny,” said Draco crossly, and unzipped Harry’s jeans with fervour. He wrapped a hand around Harry’s erection without even looking at it.

The smile dropped off Harry’s face. “Shit.”

“Shit is right,” Draco snapped, and Harry’s lips quirked. Draco glared – god, it was exactly like how he had imagined it in Hogwarts – and then he glanced down. His eyes widened.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Draco ducked his head. “You’re so –”

“Sexy?”

Draco didn’t even laugh. _“Yes.”_

Harry suddenly couldn’t stand it. He dipped down, catching Draco’s cheek in his hand. Draco jumped.

“Harry?”

Harry was kissing him. Draco’s head fell back, his hand slowing. They’d never kissed before; the heat, the sweet closeness of it was entirely new. _This,_ thought Harry, _this is what I was looking for._

Draco moaned softly into his mouth and his head rolled back further. Harry had to catch his skull in his other hand.

“Come here,” he gasped when they parted, and pulled Draco half onto his lap. Draco glanced down nervously. “But I wanted to –”

“You can,” said Harry. “You can touch me. I just want to be close.”

Draco looked down at him. He was entirely rosy, fully dressed. The damp spot on his trousers had long stiffened, and the thought of that made Harry want to throw him back onto the sofa and have his way with him.

But he had promised Draco this.

“Very well,” Draco breathed. He paused. “Harry.”

His hand was already closing back around Harry’s cock. It was a bad angle, and dry – Harry didn’t care. Draco was bundled on his lap; he was close; he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Is it good?” asked Draco.

“Yeah,” said Harry. He sort of wanted to nose Draco’s long, white neck.

Draco pointed his wand at his hand. It filled with oil. Then he moved so that he was kneeling between Harry’s open legs on the edge of the sofa.

“Draco,” said Harry, but Draco was already getting back into it. swirling at the tip and rubbing right back down. It was like some kind of torture, watching the way Draco bit his lip, furrowed his brow in concentration. Harry groaned. Draco braced himself and did some sort of twist with his wrist that made Harry’s back arch.

“That’s good,” said Draco, almost like he was speaking to himself. “You like that.”

“Yes,” Harry got out.

“You like it –” Another flick, “– like this.”

“Draco. Yes.”

“Say my name again.”

“I’ll say your name all night long if you keep doing just that,” said Harry. “I’ll put it in the sky for everyone to see.”

Draco sounded amused. “That won’t be necessary.” He rubbed the precum into the slit with his thumb.

“Fuck,” Harry’s head dropped back. God, he really wanted to come.

Draco leaned down. For a moment Harry thought he was going to put his mouth on it and made to stop him, but then Draco went higher and licked a stripe up Harry’s abdomen.

“Fuck,” said Harry, inexplicably turned on by this. He grabbed the back of Draco’s neck, this time for support. Draco came up at the contact, leaned in close.

“I thought of this,” he said into Harry’s ear.

Harry moaned. He wanted to come badly.

“What else did you think of?” He asked, almost as a distraction.

“So many things,” said Draco, rather forthcoming now. “Things that would make your toes curl.”

“God,” said Harry. “I think I’m going to come.”

Draco leaned closer. His forehead was against Harry’s neck, close enough to kiss. “You want to know how long?”

“Draco.”

“As long as you can imagine,” Draco whispered, and Harry came.

It splashed, hot as blood, between their bodies. It definitely got on Draco’s very nice blouse. He moaned helplessly, as if it was happening to him and not Harry.

After, they sat there panting, very close together. Harry’s come was drying between them, and it had stopped raining. Draco seemed unable to move. His forehead was back on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry could hear him breathing.

“Draco,” Harry said, eventually. His voice was hoarse. Draco’s breath hitched.

A part of Harry had thought that, once he had come, everything would change. That they would break away, or that Draco would take it back in the harsh clarity of day. But it was still night, and the rain had stopped, and Draco was still gathered on his lap. Just breathing.

A tentative hand reached out. Harry felt the knobs of Draco’s spine – up and down and up – through the silk.

“Don’t ask me to stay,” Draco whispered.

Harry couldn’t see his face. He wanted to, but he would have to pull back to do so. “If you knew I wouldn’t leave you alone once you told me, then why did you?”

Draco rubbed his head back and forth on Harry’s shoulder. “Just don’t.”

“Do you want me to?” Harry’s hand paused. “Leave you alone?”

Draco sat back a little. Their faces were very close; close in a way that was closer than kissing. Draco’s eyes were almost colourless in the lamplight.

“I’m asking you to,” he said quietly.

Harry swallowed. There was so many words for _want_ , and so few for what came after it. 

“Alright,” he said. “Alright, Draco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just me, wildly changing the entire tone in the 6k smut scene. That's what happens when you put on lofi in the background.
> 
> What do you all think? Let me know. And just to be clear again, this is not the end. I have a heart. 
> 
> Tonight's song is Give Great Thanks by Dorian Electra with a dash of Under The Stars at 1am by Kosibeats at the end. 
> 
> Take care out there guys. World's crazy.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave me a comment letting me know if you want more. I'm writing a book (s) outside of this, so this is really just for shits and giggles. But if people enjoy I could easily be seduced via compliment into continuing. 
> 
> In true archive tradition, I will present you with the accompanying song for this chapter that you may play on repeat for a heightened experience. That song is Way Back by TLC and Snoop Dogg. 
> 
> Also, if you work for Vice I do not want to hear what your job is really like!!!!!!! And don't sue me


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